Heartbreakers
by Colvine
Summary: Lola isn't the only one with a trail of broken hearts behind her, and Larry 'Peanut' Romano knows that better than most. Slash, eventual and immediate.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Duh.

**Warnings: **Language. More to come.

**Summary:** Lola isn't the only one to leave a trail of broken hearts behind wherever she goes, and Larry 'Peanut' Romano knows it better than most.

**Heartbreakers**

Lola Lombardi is standing in the courtyard of Harrington House, wrapped around some prep-boy whose name neither of the boys looking on bothers to remember. One is too consumed with rage to care, and the other can't let his grip on the first boy slacken, for fear of what he'll do to nameless prep-boy.

Peanut looks on in agitation, wishing not for the first time that he could just slap the girl or, or something. But he can't, of course. For one thing, you don't hit girls. For another, this isn't just any girl. And not even Larry 'Peanut' Romano, Johnny Vincent's not-quite second-in-command, most-definitely right-hand-man, could get away with laying a hand on the boss's girl.

And yet somehow every other guy at Bullworth seems to be managing to lay hands on her without any problems at all.

Larry barely remembers to tighten his arms once more around Johnny's torso, the other boy struggling and thrashing but not actually making a move to hurt Larry. He is grateful, because one elbow to the nose per day is more than enough for him, and the prep who delivered the first (and hopefully only) elbow was surprisingly strong. And bony. It was a very unpleasant experience.

"Come on, boss. Let's get out of here," Larry says, hushed and pleading.

"No! I'll show those bastards what happens to anyone who lays a finger on my girl," Johnny shoots back in a harsh whisper, his cigarette and lighter laying forgotten on the ground.

Biting his lip to keep himself from voicing his thoughts ('Yeah, boss, 'because that went _so_ well last time'), he stands up as tall as he can and talks straight into Johnny's ear. "Yeah, yeah, of course we will. But we can't do it yet; not here, in the middle of prep territory, and not right now." Johnny stops struggling and Larry loosens his grip. He spares a moment to think that this is about the closest he'll ever get, with stupid Lola in the way, before shaking his head. This isn't about Larry right now; in fact, it never really is. He resents it, a little.

Well fuck that, he resents it a lot. But that doesn't stop him, most of the time.

He continues in a low murmur, "We'll get 'em, Johnny, all of them if you want us to. But he isn't worth the shit we'll get into if we do it now," and Larry has to catch himself here because he almost said '_she_ isn't worth it,' and Johnny never would have forgiven him that. Sometimes Larry's mind wonders treacherously if that would really be a bad thing. Maybe if Johnny left him alone (if he left Johnny alone) then Larry would finally get over him, finally be able to move on.

"Yeah, you're right. You always are, aren't you?" His voice is lighter now, and friendly, instead of low and dark and angry. He sighs and relaxes, sinking back just slightly into the other boy's arms.

Larry feels it. God, does he ever feel it. He hates it and he loves it because this is what he wants, and he's never going to have it the right way. He flounders mentally for a minute, forcing himself not to do any of the hundred things he would like to do right now to the boy who has suddenly vaulted this thing from 'holding someone back from a fight,' into 'a comforting embrace.' That isn't fair of him. Surely, Larry thinks desperately, he knows how I feel about him. He's gotta know, how could he not? He wouldn't tease me like this, would he?

His inner turmoil only lasts a few seconds. He takes a deep breath, letting his head drop slightly so that his nose rests almost on the shoulder of Johnny's jacket, inhaling the smell. He lets himself, just briefly, be flooded and overwhelmed by the feeling of being pressed so tightly to Johnny's back, before he sighs and lets go. Larry turns to face him, keeping a hand on his shoulder in case Johnny changes his mind, and laughs quietly. "Well boss, what can I say? I'm brilliant," he says, grinning crookedly. He feels wild and flushed and shaky and exhilarated and he's surprised he isn't vibrating with excitement. But then, Larry has always been good at hiding his feelings.

"Uh huh, sure thing. C'mon, I can't take much more of this," Johnny declares, his face twisting into an expression of disgust. Lola, or maybe prep-boy, moans loudly into the night air, unaware or uncaring of their audience. Larry tightens his grip on Johnny's shoulder as he feels him tensing. He hunches his shoulders and turns suddenly, away, Larry notes gratefully, from the happy couple. Johnny's eyes darken once more with anger, and Larry feels (inappropriately, he thinks) weak at the knees.

Johnny Vincent is pretty damn good-looking to begin with, but there is something about his eyes, dark and smouldering when he is angry, that are just painfully gorgeous. Maybe, Larry thinks, dazedly, that's why Lola does it. Then she gets to see him like this whenever she wants. And she gets him, when he is angry and hurt and so fucking sexy it hurts.

She gets him, period.

That thought is like a bucket of ice water down his spine and suddenly he can think straight (no pun intended) once more. He feels the wave of crushing hopelessness that always seems to be just around the corner, coming on fast.

Because that isn't something Larry is ever going to get. Because Johnny is devoted to her like a dumb, loyal dog, and he always will be. Because he'll never see Larry sitting on the sidelines, just as devoted and even more hopeless. Because he will always be Peanut to Johnny. Because Johnny at least gets to think, 'Maybe this time it'll work out, maybe this time she'll stay with me, maybe this time she'll be satisfied.' Larry doesn't, because he is a realist, whereas Johnny seems to live off in some little fantasy-world where Lola is concerned.

He feels guilty for thinking such uncomplimentary things about Johnny, but only momentarily. After all, it's true, and Larry knows it.

Johnny has already started to walk off, leaving his lighter laying on the ground by Larry's foot. He crouches down and picks it up, then looks from the lighter to Johnny, and back. He stuffs it deep into his pocket and lets his hands follow it into the pockets of his jacket, and trots off to catch up with the boss. _His_ boss.

* * *

Later that night, when Larry is safely in his dorm and away from Johnny, he rages. He paces like a caged animal, he kicks the bed and he punches the wall. Then he finally decides to stop, because his knuckles hurt and he's afraid that his fist will go through the wall if he does it again – Bullworth is a pretty cheap place. And the last thing he needs is to try to explain to his father why there's a bill for a school wall in the mail. The very thought of it makes him cringe.

When one of his dorm mates walks in, he finds Larry lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, eyes shut; the very picture of untroubled tranquility, if you didn't know him. Vance, having no issues with invading the personal space of a fellow greaser (which has ticked off more than one of them) promptly walks in and sprawls onto Larry's bed, leaning on the backboard so he is facing the other boy.

"What's going on, Peanut?"

"Fuck you, Vance, my name is Larry. And get your goddamn shoes off my bed," he shoots back, quick and biting.

Vance tilts his head sideways and narrows his eyes a little, stung, but decides to laugh it off. It sort of is an annoying nickname, he guesses. "Sure, whatever, man. My fault, Larry," he says, emphasizing the name just a little bit. He kicks his shoes off in a half-assed conciliatory gesture, and they hit the bunk across the room, which is inhabited (although not at the moment) by nerds.

Peanut (Vance can't quite stop thinking of him by that name, it just kind of _fits_) rubs his eyes with the base of his palms and makes a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Sorry. I'm just pissed off right now. Not your fault, though."

"Nah, it's all right. D'you wanna, I don't know, talk about it or something?" Larry makes his strange noise again, and sits up.

"You don't want to hear my bitching," he says, laughing shortly.

Vance stretches idly before replying, "Come on, indulge me then. I'm bored stupid, man." Larry just snickers. "What's funny?" Vance demands.

"Well, it's not like you were ever that far away from stupid. It was practically around the corner."

"Ha fuckin' ha." He flips the other boy off before continuing. "You can't distract me that easily, though. What's bothering you, Larry?"

It may be the use of his given name, one of the first times it has been used by someone that isn't a teacher (even the prefects call him Peanut now). It may be the determined expression that Vance is wearing, that tells him that he isn't going to get any peace until he does what the other boy wants. Or maybe he's just tired of keeping everything bottled up so tightly inside. Whatever it is, Larry suddenly wants nothing (well, almost nothing) more than to tell Vance why he's so angry he could explode, and why he can't do a single thing about it.

"It's just… I mean, I-" Larry quickly discovers that wanting to talk about something isn't quite enough, and he has been trying quite hard, for a long time, not to think about it. That tends to make discussing it harder. "So, me and Johnny were walking around the school, trying to find somewhere prefect-free to have a smoke." Vance nods, biting down on the urge to correct Peanut's- no, Larry's grammar. "And we heard, um, we heard some pretty noisy kissing from inside the preps' little fortress. I wanted to look somewhere else, but Johnny thought it would be funny to scare 'em. So we snuck up on them." Larry pauses.

"Oh shit," Vance interjects, seeing quite clearly now where this is going. "Lola?"

Larry smiles nastily. "Oh, you guessed? Of course it was fucking Lola. It always is." Vance draws back, surprised by the venom and bitterness in the other boy's voice. "And I held him back, like a good friend." His voice begins escalating, "And I played along with his phoney smile, and tried my best to distract him even though I knew it was pointless, and didn't get pissed off that he was obviously ignoring me. And I didn't tell him that his girlfriend is an easy, flighty, dim-witted bitch," he finishes, almost shouting. He pauses for a minute and then concludes in a barely audible whisper, "Because I am a good fucking friend."

The silence in the room seems to echo for a second, the words _easy, flighty, dim-witted _and _bitch_ floating around the room, irrevocable and unforgivable. Larry looks like he might be regretting his outburst, and seems to have said more than he intended to. Vance just looks a little stunned. "Uh, I, uh, didn't- I mean-" Larry struggles for words, finally spitting out, "Forget it, I didn't mean-" He begins getting up, intending to leave. Vance finally snaps out of his haze and pays attention to the real world again, just in time to shoot forward and press his hands to Larry's shoulders, pushing him back down.

"No, no. You meant what you said, and I won't repeat a word, I promise. Honestly, I can't say I disagree." Larry sighs and stops pushing up against Vance's hands, flopping back onto the bed and dropping a hand over his eyes.

"Thanks, Vance," he sighs. "It's good to know."

"So, what, you like him or something?" Vance's voice, deceptively mild and uninterested, cuts across Larry's mind like a saw. He tenses up again, tries to escape, but Vance hasn't removed his hands yet, and is continuing to hold him. "Hey, relax. Larry come on, relax. I'm not gonna hold it against you or anything. That'd be pretty rich, you know?"

Larry suddenly looks a bit stunned, but stops struggling. "What? You're-"

"Yeah. Yeah I am," he says. Larry looks at him, feeling a little bit flattered that Vance is revealing something so personal and sensitive. They both know something about each other now that could possibly be damaging. Bullworth isn't a kind place, even to the people who conform absolutely to the norm – it can be downright vicious if you don't have friends to look out for you, or if you don't fit in. Larry thinks about arguing with Vance, but decides that it would be pretty insulting after a show of trust like that.

"'Like' is a weak word for it," he admits shakily. "But I do. How do you know? I mean, am I that obvious?"

"No. Well, yeah, a little. But mostly I just recognize the way you're acting."

Larry laughs bitterly, finally making eye contact with the other boy again – he had been avoiding his eyes since he started talking about what was wrong. "What, you mean acting as though I care way too much, in all the wrong ways, for someone who will never feel the same?" Vance looks down, his eyes and expression seeming to get softer and harder at the same time.

"Exactly," he says bitterly. "Hell, I couldn't have said it better myself."

"Oh, shit. Sorry, Vance, I didn't mean… Who is it?"

"He- You know what, it doesn't matter." Vance looks up again, and trails off, "It's never… gonna…" he leans forward, tilting his head to the side just slightly. Larry is suddenly keenly aware of Vance's body, kneeling in front of him, leaning close, hands pressed to his shoulders, brown eyes boring into his. Heat prickles down his neck and plunges his stomach into frantic turmoil. He flattens one hand against Vance's chest, trying to decide whether to push him away or pull him closer, the other hovering uncertainly in the air by his shoulder. Their eyes remain open and connected as they slowly come closer and closer to one another.

Suddenly, finally, he feels the other boy's lips against his, soft and chapped and moving slowly, cautiously. He shuts his eyes, relaxing into the kiss, but Vance draws back abruptly, though not very far. Larry can still feel him breathing, feel the heat from his face and smell his skin and his hair.

"Sorry," Vance pants, almost into Larry's mouth, and Larry has to slide his eyes back open. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I shouldn't have taken advantage like-" Larry, ignoring him, brings his waiting hand down onto Vance's neck and pulls him back to Larry's lips. He pushes them together and hopes that the other boy will take the lead from there because he isn't quite sure what to do next. Vance obliges, alternating between sucking lightly on his lips and letting his tongue stray into the other boy's mouth. The first time he does that, Larry gasps and fists his hand into Vance's shirt – no jacket, he notes dreamily.

But then, Larry isn't wearing one either – he couldn't stop touching the lighter in his pocket and when he realized, he had ripped the jacket from his shoulders and thrown it across the room, lighter still sitting in the pocket.

He wrenches his mind off of that track forcibly, curling his tongue inexpertly into Vance's mouth and trying to pull him closer. The tongue thing seems to work, from the soft sigh Vance lets slip from his mouth into Larry's. But the pulling doesn't work as well, really, because Vance is crouched over him and Larry is sitting on his ass and straining upwards. The positioning is pretty awkward. Larry twists and pushes his way up onto his knees without breaking contact with his mouth for more than a few seconds.

Vance's hands settle on his waist and hipbones, pulling them closer together gently but insistently. Larry winds the fingers of one hand into the hair at the back of Vance's head, the other arm wrapped tightly around his shoulders. He can feel the other boy pressed against him, hot and firm and full of life and movement.

He feels fingers sliding up under his shirt, burning hot against the skin of his sides and lower back, and gasps again and jerks forward. Vance makes a soft, desperate groan in the back of his throat and Larry feels it through their still-connected mouths more than he hears it. He also feels him roll his hips forward, feels the press of something hard and familiar and at the same time a little bit alien, just to the side of his hipbone, _almost_ right there, right where it would feel so…

Then Vance shifts over to the side on his knees and does it again and _there_ it is, and Larry can't help but mimic his movement, biting down viciously on his lip to stop a low, needy moan from escaping. He thinks it might have got past anyways, because Vance feels like he's grinning when their lips meet again. He rolls his hips once more and Larry bites harder on his lip (he absolutely refuses to whimper), presses his eyes closed and lets his head fall back slightly, a little overwhelmed.

Vance takes this as an invitation to kiss, suck and bite at the newly exposed skin of his neck (maybe it was).

Between the hands roaming higher and higher on his torso, the hot, wet lips on his neck and the slow, steady and insistent movement of Vance's hips, it is a little too much for Larry, who has never gone quite this far, this fast, with other people (possibly because they were girls, and his interest is, without a doubt, most definitely, elsewhere). He bunches the hand in Vance's hair and tugs back to detach his lips from Larry's neck, and then kisses him again, more slowly. Vance gets the message and pulls back.

"Sorry," he pants, and Larry is gratified to see that he isn't the only one having trouble catching his breath. "Didn't mean to go that fast, I just," Vance breaks off, kisses him again lightly, and laughs. "I can't stop myself from," Larry kisses him, this time.

"I think I know what you mean," he whispers, unwilling to test his voice at any greater volume for fear that it will crack or do something equally humiliating. They end up forehead to forehead, breaths mingling between them. Larry notices for perhaps the first time that Vance has dark green eyes, not brown ones and is very aware of his hand, still resting comfortably on the back of Vance's neck, fingers curled into his hair. His hair, that is distractingly short and soft and just slightly slick and feels very familiar.

Eventually Larry marshals his thoughts into line and asks the obvious question, "What the hell are we doing, Vance?" His voice, thankfully, does not let him down. The other greaser slowly pulls his hands from under Larry's shirt (it was sort of a tight fit) and shuffles around to sit with his back to the headboard, side pressed against Larry because really, there isn't room for them not to be pressed together.

It's a little easier to talk when they aren't staring directly at each other.

"I don't really know," Vance admits sheepishly. "I just… wanted to, you know?" Larry knows exactly what he means, and how hard it is to put the rushing feelings of hopelessness and desire, and the strong, quick undercurrent of sexual tension, and the amazing, blissful relief of someone who understands, into words. Especially words that someone male might use.

"Yeah. I know." There are a few moments of companionable silence, instead of the awkward hush that might have been expected. "So, what do we do now?" Larry finally asks.

Vance rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Uh, well, I like you, and all, but not like-"

"Oh, yeah, no, not like that," Larry rushes to agree. "But that was…" he continues hesitantly, "It was pretty…"

"Yeah," Vance agrees, sounding a bit out of it and dazed. "Yeah, it was."

Larry sighs and turns his head to the side to face Vance. "So, who is he?"

He unthinkingly opens his mouth to answer, then snaps it shut with an angry blush. "You'd hate me. You'd think I was an idiot for falling for him." He stops for a minute, waiting, but Larry just looks at him with an expression of sympathy. Vance keeps talking almost automatically, as if he feels compelled to fill in the silence. "You'd be right. And," he continues bitterly, "it really doesn't matter, anyways. He'll never even notice me, and he sure as hell won't want me even if he does. He'd probably hate me for even thinking it. I should just give up, but I- I- I _can't_!" Frustrated and furious, Vance looks like he isn't far from tears. He also looks like he's shrunk into himself, gotten smaller and hunched on the bed, miserable and ashamed of himself.

Larry doesn't have the first idea how to fix this. But he has to try, because he's done the same for Johnny who, it seems to Larry, deserves it far less than this teen, shaking with anger and hopelessness and trying so hard to keep everything in.

He puts an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his upper arm reassuringly and pulling Vance closer in to his side.

"Then he's a fucking asshole," Larry says, his voice low and rough still. "And he doesn't deserve the rotten goddamn eggs I'm gonna throw at him, and everyone he's ever fucking met." He doesn't know where the anger came from – it wasn't there a minute ago – but Larry suddenly wants to hurt the son of a bitch who's hurt his friend.

Vance laughs lowly and seems to get himself under control. "Thanks, man."

Larry grins, the seriousness of the moment gone. "No problem. I know you don't want to talk about it, but if you ever do tell me you can see if he's still good lookin' after a carton of Yum Yum's finest." Vance laughs suddenly, probably picturing it.

"Heh. He'd freak." There are a few moments more of companionable silence before Vance shifts out from under Larry's arm and turns to face him. "Say, was it tonight that you and Johnny saw her and the other guy?" His tone is that of someone coming to an unpleasant realization.

"Yeah," Larry agrees slowly, not quite following Vance's train of thought yet.

"And, you're not with him now."

"No," Larry says, thinking that this is a little bit obvious, considering.

"So then, who is? Because-"

"Shit!" Larry runs a hand through his hair agitatedly, suddenly understanding. "He'll drink himself stupid, and then get in a fight. And lose horribly, since we're not there. Fuck, you stupid bastard." Larry stands up, looking as though he'll start pacing any minute now. "I should just let him do it. He's dug himself a fucking hole, let him throw himself in." He clenches and unclenches his fists and then shoves a hand roughly through his slicked-back hair again, a picture of barely contained energy.

Vance approaches him slowly and puts a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah, you probably should. But you won't. Come on, I'll help you find him."

Larry gives him a quick, startled look. "You sure? He's usually kinda an asshole after Lola pulls her tricks."

He shrugs it off, replying lightly, "Still better than homework." Larry laughs distractedly.

"All right then. Thanks. But we don't really need to go looking; I know where he'll be."

* * *

And I've expanded into yet another video game fandom! Of course, how could you not try to write something about Bully, once you've played it? I'm not too happy with the title, especially since the idea has probably been used before. So that might change. Anyways, if anyone wants to tell me who they think Vance's crush is, I'm still open to suggestion. But I have some ideas already.

Colvine


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Duh.

**Warnings: **Language, and other fun stuff. Going to have to up the rating in later chapters, and that'll be all the warning you get. ;)

**Summary:** Lola isn't the only one to leave a trail of broken hearts behind wherever she goes, and Larry 'Peanut' Romano knows it better than most.

**Heartbreakers**

During the walk from the bus stop to the seedy hole-in-the-wall bar where Larry knows they will find Johnny, the sky seems to open up with an ominous boom of thunder. Vance just has time to swear under his breath before the pair is drenched by the sudden downpour. "This place better be close," he growls to the night sky.

"Yeah, we're nearly there," Larry replies in a tense half-mutter. He speeds up his gait until they are almost running. He snorts a moment later when they stop outside of a building, dark, dingy and otherwise unremarkable. "Welcome to 'The Bar'," he says sarcastically. Vance looks up and sees why – the space where the bar's name might once have rested is empty, though the nails are still fastened to the wall. They both hurry in through the door, allowing cheap, fluorescent lighting to spill into the darkened street for a moment before the door slams shut behind them.

The inside of the bar is just as unimpressive as the outside. More so, in fact, because of the inhabitants, who look either sad, dangerous, or as though they have melted into their seats. The radio sounds broken, and whatever song it is attempting to play sounds irritating anyways, almost improved by the skipping and the static.

They walk towards the bar as unobtrusively as possible. "Jesus," Vance whispers after a minute. "This place is really…"

"Disgusting?" Larry finishes for him. "Yeah. But they don't check your age. You could walk in here with a Bullworth uniform on, and he'd still serve you."

"Nice." Vance looks around surreptitiously, trying not to catch the eyes of anyone who looks too volatile. That is, everyone. "I don't see him."

Larry sighs. "Don't worry about it. He'll-"

"Peanut!" Larry's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly and he looks over to the source of the voice.

"-turn up eventually," he finishes quietly.

Johnny slides off of his stool in the darkest corner of the bar unsteadily and walks over to thump the other boy on the shoulder. Or at least, he tries to. "Good to see yo- whoa!" His coordination isn't at its best, and he misses Larry's shoulder entirely, instead throwing his arm out and then stumbling forward to follow it. Larry plants a hand on his chest, pushes him upright, and then leaves his hand there absently to keep his gently swaying friend upright.

He then turns to the bartender. "Hey. How many's he had?"

"Hey kid. That'll be his eighth," the burly man says, nodding at the half empty beer bottle in front of Johnny's unoccupied stool. "Plus, for some reason, two shots of whiskey." Larry rolls his eyes, muttering, 'dumbass,' under his breath, and the bartender looks amused and slightly sympathetic. "Girl troubles?"

Larry barks out a single, short laugh. "What else?"

Vance, looking on, realizes that this whole scene has the look of something practiced, something that has happened more than once before. What Larry does next is new, though, judging from the twitching of the bartender's eyebrows. Larry walks away from Johnny, who stays in place, over to his seat and proceeds to drain Johnny's half-empty bottle. He mutters something that sounds, to Vance, suspiciously like, "You owe me, you bastard." Then he walks back to Johnny and takes his shoulder with a gentleness that is strange when compared to his face, which makes the more sober patrons of the bar turn away meekly and go back to their drinks.

When they are safely out in the cool night air once more, Vance turns to Larry. Talking quietly, he says, "He seems alright. Didn't you say…" he trails off tactfully, deciding that Johnny doesn't need to hear this conversation.

"Yeah, I know. He isn't drunk enough," Larry answers.

They begin heading for the Tenements, but then a police officer directs his flashlight towards them and narrows his eyes. Vance checks his watch and swears. "It's almost midnight, Larry. We're gonna have to go back to the dorm." The policeman walks off with a final warning look at the three of them.

"Shit, really?" As they talk, Johnny ambles off, unnoticed by the other greasers. "I didn't realize we spent that long…" Larry turns red and cuts himself off. "Never mind." Vance just grins. Larry suddenly notices the absence of Johnny and looks around rather frantically. He catches sight of him and almost drops his head into his hands and gives up. Johnny is walking purposefully, if unsteadily, towards a large townie, and Larry can just imagine what he'll do when he finally reaches him.

He breaks into a jog and hears Vance doing the same behind him, but they don't make it there quite fast enough. Johnny says something unintelligible and then reaches over and shoves the townie, who stumbles backwards. Even drunk, he's quite strong, and big enough to make people think twice before messing with him. But townies are notorious for their inability to back down, amongst other things. He shoves back.

By this point Larry is close enough to see Johnny's face. "Fuck," he mutters.

Johnny draws back and, with sudden and unexpected viciousness, punches the townie in the jaw. Once more he stumbles back, and then barrels forwards, grabs Johnny by the waist and bears him to the ground. He punches him in the face twice, quick and hard, before Larry can reach them. Johnny is struggling, but he isn't at his best and he isn't going to win.

The third time he draws his fist back, Larry catches him by the wrist and shoves him off of Johnny. He doesn't go very far, though Larry had shoved pretty hard, before scrambling to his feet again. Larry and Vance each grab one of Johnny's arms, and they haul him to his feet. He hesitates when faced with the three of them, giving Larry a chance to speak. "Sorry man. My friend can be a jerk when he's drunk. Didn't mean anything by it. Just, back off, will'ya?"

The townie sneers when he finally gets a good look at his assailant, and then laughs. "That's Johnny Vincent, isn't it? Is his slut girlfriend screwing around again, or-" He is cut off by Johnny's wordless roar of rage as he lunges forward. Vance, shocked, lets go of his left arm but Larry had been expecting it and just holds tighter to his right, wrapping his free arm around the flailing teen's waist. His target, seeing that he is, for the moment, safely restrained, laughs once more as his eyes light on Larry. "And you're that little bitch that runs around after him, kissing his ass."

Larry doesn't notice that he is clenching his fist until Johnny makes a sound of protest, drawing away from him. Then he snarls at the townie, "You're just fucking lucky we have more important shit to do than kick your sorry ass," and stalks off, hauling the suddenly compliant Johnny behind him.

When there's about a block between them and the townie he abruptly releases his friend and keeps walking, quick and angry. His blood is boiling, his breath is coming in short gasps, and his jaw hurts from clenching it so furiously.

Is this what it gets him, then? He has stuck to this dogged, persistent friendship, this boundless care and loyalty to Johnny fucking Vincent the goddamn mental case, and what is his reward? People see him as the little bitch running after him. That's just… that's fucking…

It's fucking accurate, isn't it?

The thought whirls around in his head, pushy and relentless. Isn't it?

Johnny certainly didn't leap to Larry's defence the way he did Lola's. Maybe he believes it too. Maybe he thinks Larry is just some fucking loser who follows him around. Maybe he knows how Larry feels, and thinks it's hilariously pathetic. Maybe he's laughing his ass off, behind Larry's back.

"Lar', man, you're the best," Johnny drapes himself across Larry's shoulders, and Larry's hackles rise like those of an angry dog. But lusting after your best friend does wonders for your self-restraint if you do it for any length of time, and Larry has had a lot of practice. He keeps walking, though he's slower now that Johnny is leaning so heavily on him.

He replies with a quiet, "I know," and reminds himself that this is one of the upsides of Johnny getting drunk. He tends to use Larry's given name, rather than that goddamn nickname.

"No really," he slurs, "yer my bes' friend, Larry. 'D be screwed w'thout you, y'know? Y'always help me out when Lola… when she…" Aw, fuck. He's- He'd better not cry. Not with Vance standing right there. With that thought he looks over at Vance, who has a strange look on his face. Larry looks at him questioningly, but he just shakes his head with a glance at Johnny, who is by now definitely three sheets to the wind, and on his way to raising the fourth. Later, he seems to be saying.

Larry would be touched by this monologue of Johnny's, and in a strange sort of way he is, but right now anger that he hasn't let himself think about for months is bubbling and writhing dangerously close to the surface, and he doesn't much care that Johnny is finally, _finally_ realizing just how much of a friend Larry is. How much he would like to be more than a friend, even, although thankfully Johnny seems about as sharp as a sack of bricks when it comes to things like that and probably won't realize unless you actually come out and tell him things. Even then, he might not.

"Why d's she do this to me? Doesn' she love me? I love her," he says plaintively, appealing to Larry. He bites his lip and clenches his fists, because it wouldn't be fair to explode at him while he's drunk and doesn't know what he's saying. "'M not good 'nough for her, tha's what it is," he decides, his eyes turning dark and deeply unhappy. "'M not good lookin' enough for a pretty girl like her, an' I got no money. Spoiled stupid rich turds c'n buy her wha'ever she wants, an' I can't give her what she… what she should have. I don' deserve her," he concludes pathetically, his face a picture of badly contained misery.

It's enough to crack Larry's resolve not to help Johnny with his Lola-related problems. He can't _not_ say something, not when the other boy is being this pathetic. "No, Johnny, that ain't true," he protests. But he doesn't know how to respond without making it obvious that he would very much like to take Lola's place. It's also kind of awkward that Vance is hearing all this. Looking around for him, Larry realizes that he's sped up so that he is walking a good fifteen feet ahead of them, hands in his pockets. He feels a flicker of gratitude for Vance's moments of sensitivity.

Larry decides to try the truth, just this once. After all, Johnny might not even remember this tomorrow morning. "You're, you're a great guy Johnny. But Lola isn't interested in just you. She likes making you jealous, and she likes that she has all this power over guys. She isn't gonna give it up, not even for you. C'mon, Johnny, you've gotta be able to see that?"

"I… But…" Johnny seems to be having trouble responding. Larry doesn't blame him, really. He slips back into his usual repertoire of comforting lies for this very occasion, bothered by his friend's obvious distress.

"Hey, I'm sure she'll come around," he says softly, hating the power that Lola holds over him, even now when the last thing he should care about is her. The anguish seems to slide from Johnny's face as Larry keeps talking and subtly slides an arm around his back to hold him up more efficiently – the leaning was getting uncomfortable and Larry has been veering dangerously close to the gutter. "She's just," a fickle whore, "going through some kinda girl-shit, I bet." Johnny nods, satisfied with this weak explanation.

Larry fights the urge to roll his eyes. He knows there are good reasons that he cares so much for this idiot, but he can't seem to recall any of them at the moment. "Hey, Vance!" he calls to the other greaser, who turns back to look at them, still sporting his strange expression. Larry beckons him over impatiently, muttering, "Christ Johnny, you fat lump. I'm gonna fall over if you keep this up." Johnny just laughs and rests his chin on Larry's shoulder.

"Aw, c'mon. You love me, don't'cha Larry? No one else does," he mumbles, doing a quick about-face from cheerful right back to melancholy.

Larry swallows and stares straight ahead, not looking at Johnny or Vance, who they've caught up with at exactly the wrong time. "Yeah, sure Johnny, I love you," his voice, quiet enough that Vance has to strain to hear it, is gentle, still carrying his 'talking-to-drunk-and-maudlin-Johnny' tone, is very much at odds with his manner and appearance. Vance puts his hand on Larry's shoulder for a second uncertainly, and Johnny grins, bouncing back to cheerful.

"Nah, you love Vance!" He says it in a strange, sing-song voice and the hobo on the corner gives them all a very strange look. Larry considers flipping him off, and then decides that with his luck the hobo would proceed to pull off his beard, become Bruce Lee, and kick all their asses.

Instead he replies in the same quiet voice, not really intended for Johnny's ears at all. "I probably should. It would be easier than this." Then he raises his voice and shoves Johnny not-quite-gently over to Vance. "Your turn walking him," he bites out. Johnny looks at him in bewilderment but Larry doesn't look back at him. His self-control is cracking, fault-lines appearing like magic and the edges becoming ragged as he tries to keep a hold on it.

The rest of the walk home is silent, broken only when Larry calms down enough to help Vance with Johnny, who is heavier than he looks (and looks quite heavy).

* * *

"…"

"Well, fuck."

Larry quietly closes the door to Johnny's room behind him and groans. It's almost one in the morning and he's tired.

But Johnny's roommates include jocks. Technically there is only one jock, as well as some cross-eyed non-clique kid, and Trent Northwick.

Tonight, though, the cross-eyed kid is nowhere to be found, and there are five jocks in the room, one of them wrapped very closely around the blonde bully. Normally, Larry would pay good money to see that particular scene unfold when people start waking up, but tonight he is almost out of patience. He isn't stupid enough to try throwing any of the jocks out – other than the one cuddling Trent, they are all huge – but he knows that if he puts Johnny in a room with them, he'll wake someone up just to pick a fight. At least one of them has been with Lola, after all. And there are five of them, plus the bully. He fucking _refuses_ to try getting out to the Tenements at one in the fucking morning, and he's running out of options.

Vance snickers quietly at the closed door. "I know there are _rumours_ that they have a little fun in the communal showers, but wow. I wish I had a camera on me. Kirby is going to freak out tomorrow morning," he laughs at the thought.

Larry chuckles half-heartedly, but he's _tired_, damnit! "Where are we gonna put you?" he asks himself wearily, looking between Johnny and Vance.

Vance shrugs and says, "We could try our room. It's not like the prefects give a shit about who sleeps where." Larry sighs and nods, wondering why Johnny is so quiet. He looks over, and swallows a smile. The king of the greasers is leaning on the wall and, in the time that Larry and Vance took snickering at poor, repressed Kirby Olsen he has all but fallen asleep, head tipped against the wall and mouth falling open. Larry suddenly remembers one of his reasons – Johnny is trusting like a five year old (with some people, at least), and it's kinda sweet.

Noticing Larry's preoccupation, Vance rolls his eyes and opens the door to their room. "Whenever you're ready," he calls sarcastically, feeling tired himself.

Larry looks away, an embarrassed blush heating the back of his neck. "Sorry. C'mon, you dumbass." Larry is much more irreverant when Johnny is like this. He moves abruptly, walking over to Johnny, and again the incongruent gentleness emerges as he takes him by the shoulder and guides him, still half asleep, to the room.

Inside, three of the four bunks are uninhabited, which is an unusual state of affairs – the nerds are hardly rule-breakers. Letting go of Johnny, Larry turns to the over-weight redhead curled up on the top bunk with a comic book. "Hey, Fatty. Up late?" Larry finds that being on bad terms with your roommates is more trouble than its worth, in general. And at least they'll never have to room with preps.

"Hiya, Peanut. Yeah, can't sleep; I've got a chem test tomorrow, and its keeping me up," he mutters.

Larry winces sympathetically. "Ouch. Hey, where's Juliet?" he asks, indicating Cornelius' empty, ground-level bunk.

Fatty grins. "Cornelius? He… You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Well then, when's he getting' back?"

"Oh, not tonight, for sure." He grins that strange grin again, as though the truth is so strange even he is having trouble believing it.

"Well, then, you think he'd mind if Johnny borrowed it? Only, there's a happy, humpin' little dog pile of jocks in his room," Larry explains with a grimace.

Fatty laughs awkwardly, and then waves his hand. "Nah, it wouldn't bother him. But you might have some trouble rousing the sleeping giant," he says, pointing. Larry looks and almost pulls his hair in frustration. Vance has pulled on pyjama bottoms and is curled up on his top bunk, and Johnny has sprawled out, shoes, leather jacket and all, on Peanut's bottom bunk.

"Oh, you bastard." He walks over and considers pulling the other boy's shoes off. But it seems like far too intimate a gesture all of a sudden, though he's done it once or twice before, with Johnny lying on Larry's bed (on _his bed_), brow furrowed slightly and letting out breathy, open-mouthed snores. "Whatever," he finally mutters, breaking his gaze away from Johnny's sleeping face after just a little bit too long. He changes quickly, scowls half-heartedly once more at the teen occupying his bed, and crawls into Cornelius' bed a little awkwardly.

After all, it's some other guy's bed. It's a little weird.

* * *

So, another chapter done. I wouldn't expect this speed of updates to continue, but I'm on a roll right now. :) I feel kinda sorry for Larry - he's being such a doormat.

Colvine


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Duh.

**Warnings: **Language, and other fun stuff. I'm probably going to increase the rating in later chapters, and that'll be all the warning you get.

**Summary:** Lola isn't the only one to leave a trail of broken hearts behind wherever she goes, and Larry 'Peanut' Romano knows it better than most.

**Heartbreakers**

"Hey," says a voice, cutting across Larry's resting mind like a band saw, "get up, will you? I need my bed." Larry hadn't been expecting a chorus of angels, which is lucky because he certainly isn't getting one. Then bits of his brain kick-start themselves although, as is usually the case, memory lags behind.

He wonders, with the calm of someone who is about to really freak out, what _exactly_ he is doing in Cornelius' bed. This is a bad precedent to set. Larry opens his eyes slowly, hoping that he won't see anything even resembling naked Cornelius. _Please_, he thinks, _please. I will be good forever, if there is just an innocent explanation for this_. Luckily, there is - his memory finally catches up with the rest of his brain, and he sighs in relief, hauling himself slowly out of bed.

He glances at the bunk bed that he usually inhabits, and grins. Vance, as usual, has an arm dangling over the edge of the top bunk and is resting precariously close to the edge. Once before, the morning of April Fools, Larry had crept right next to his ear and then yelled at him to wake up – Vance fell out of the bed, swearing up a storm as he did so. And of course, it also seems to happen every other time fucking Hopkins pulls the fire alarm, which makes it almost worth it that Larry has to get out of bed at three a.m. in the dead of winter without a shirt on.

Almost.

Johnny is still lying spread-eagled on Larry's bed, mouth once more hanging slightly open. It makes his lips look that much more tempting. Larry shakes himself slightly. Last night's walk through the rain washed the grease from his hair and it falls, in ruffled disarray, all over his face. Larry clenches his fists to avoid the temptation of touching it, and turns back to Cornelius. "Hey, Juliet. Sorry, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed the bed. I mean, Johnny should have, but," he shrugs, trying to communicate the futility of shifting the other boy. "Say, where were you, last night? Fatty just said I wouldn't believe him if he told me."

Cornelius grins, looking excited enough to start jumping around or, Larry fears, reciting love poems, as he is wont to do when worked up. "I was swept off my feet," he says dreamily, and Larry has to look away so he doesn't laugh.

Once he has recovered slightly, he says, "That sounds… nice. Um, I've gotta," he gestures weakly behind himself, but Cornelius just waves him off, away in his own happy dream world.

Larry grabs a clean t-shirt, some mostly unstained jeans and his toothbrush, and makes for the bathroom. He stops at the door, deciding he should probably wake up the other two sleeping greasers, and then checks his watch. Its six a.m. in the morning, and he is awake. He growls his irritation at love-struck dumbass nerds and stalks off. When he is sure Cornelius can't see him, he shudders, trying to purge the image of someone 'sweeping him off his feet' from his mind.

_Ew_.

One shower later and change of clothes later, Larry is feeling slightly more forgiving, and has just remembered the scene in Johnny's room. He thinks that Vance has a camera in his dresser, and he's sure that he won't mind Larry borrowing it. Especially for something this hilarious.

He digs the camera out from amongst some of Vance's crap, and then walks quietly over to the other room. No one else is awake at this hideous hour, so the hallway is empty and quiet. He turns the handle slowly, and pushes the door open gently to stick his head inside, sans camera. If someone is awake then he's looking for Johnny, he decides. Foolproof alibi, since the camera isn't yet visible. The scene is just as perfect as he remembered it, if not more so.

The smaller, red-head jock is still wrapped up with the blonde bully on a ground-level bunk. One of the others has occupied the other bottom bunk, it looks like Ted, but it seems that none of them could manage to make it to the top bunks, so there is a three-man jock pile on the floor. Larry bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood, trying to contain the laughter bubbling in his chest – if he wakes them up, he's a dead man.

He eases the door just a little farther open, so he can fit his shoulders through the gap. The door creaks, and Kirby stirs. Larry freezes, laughter momentarily forgotten, but Trent pulls the red-head closer and appears to be nuzzling his neck, and Kirby relaxes again. The hilarity returns full force and Larry is once again shaking with the effort of not laughing. He raises the camera, then remembers at the last moment and turns the flash off.

Then he takes the picture and, for good measure, a few close-ups as well. The best, by far, is the one in which Trent has an arm wrapped around Kirby's waist, tangled legs, and his nose buried in the other boy's neck. But the jock pile is looking distinctly cuddlier this morning, and so that is a close second. He backs away, closes the door gently behind himself, and runs back to the room, nerves humming with the adrenaline rush of his successful mission.

Checking his watch again he sighs in disappointment – it's only seven. And Cornelius has disappeared. Larry decides he doesn't want to know.

He pulls his bulky leather jacket on and stuffs the camera into the same pocket as the lighter so he isn't tempted to touch it. Then he goes out to the common area and plays Future Racer and tries to beat the un-initialled high score while he waits for people to wake up.

He isn't disappointed.

After maybe five rounds (in which he gets nowhere _near_ the high score – who is this guy?) there is a strangled sort of scream from what Larry has taken to calling the jocks' room, then hushed whispering.

Soon after come some surprised, half-hearted shouts, and some indistinct bellowing about pound cake.

Then the door flies open to hit the wall behind it with a bang, and Trent takes off running out the door, clutching his shirt and laughing, closely pursued by Kirby, who is shaking a fist and still screaming about pound cake.

Larry sits in stunned silence for a moment, the Future Racer machine beeping frantically as he loses his race, and then laughs so hard tears prickle at the corners of his eyes. He decides that it is probably time to wake up Vance and Johnny, if they hadn't already been roused by the screams and bellowing.

Back in the room Vance is sitting up and blinking blearily, Johnny is clutching his head, Fatty is out of bed and walking to the bathroom and Cornelius is still nowhere to be found. Larry grins and pulls out the camera, setting it to display the photographs he's taken, and walks over.

"Hey, Vance, remember Johnny's room?" Vance looks at him dumbly for a minute, and then grows a grin to match Peanut's.

Then he notices the camera. "You took pictures? Lemme see them!" He scrambles forward, almost tumbling out of the bed in his haste. Johnny sits up and cocks his head questioningly, but Larry looks away and instead steadies Vance so he doesn't crash into the floor, face first. Larry hands him the camera and waits - he doesn't have to wait long. Vance gives one startled bark of laughter, and then continues laughing for a few minutes. "Oh, this is fucking perfect! You, Larry, are an artist," he chuckles, wrapping a companionable arm around his shoulders absently and letting the camera dangle across Larry's chest. Larry makes to glance at Johnny but reminds himself not to spend all of his time and brain space on the other boy and refocuses on Vance, who is gesturing widely with his free arm to encompass the depth of the love he has for these pictures. He also tries to ignore Vance's shirtlessness, with some success.

He therefore misses a sudden and, frankly, uncommon thoughtful expression pass across Johnny's open, expressive face as he regards the two teens.

It passes quickly and he stands up, stretching uncomfortably and rubbing his forehead. "Hey, uh, not to interrupt you two or anything," Larry steps smartly away from Vance, who grins and lets his arm fall, "but what the hell am I doing here?"

Larry snaps almost unintentionally back into looking-out-for-Johnny mode, and explains last night tersely. He turns to rummage in his bedside table, and pulls out some Advils, which he hands to Johnny wordlessly. He smirks when he reaches the part about the jocks, and shows Johnny the pictures with the proud, anxious air of a kid who thinks they've done well, but is waiting with baited breath for confirmation. Johnny takes one look, then laughs and laughs. Larry relaxes, and the atmosphere in the room becomes less heavy and choking.

There is still something not quite right in the air around him, a swirling cloud of anger and hurt and confusion and desire. Vance knows what it means, but Johnny just looks confused and a little uncomfortable, especially since Larry's attention isn't focussed on him the way it usually is. He walks out the door a few silent moments later, promising to meet Larry for lunch in New Coventry.

Once he is gone Vance turns on Larry with last night's strange, unreadable expression back in place. "How many times have you done that?"

"What do you mean?"

Vance frowns. "Last night. You looked like, like you'd done it before, a hundred times, like you were following a goddamn script or something. How many times have you fetched him from the bar, herded him back home and tucked him in?"

Larry flushes angrily, distressed to be hearing it described in that blunt, almost mocking way. But like the townie last night, he finds himself struggling to dispute the words. _It is true, isn't it?_ He reacts defensively, trying to shift attention away from himself. "How many times has he found out about her cheating?"

"I'm not talkin' about Johnny right now, Larry, and I'm not talking about Lola either," Vance says hotly, having learned, perhaps instinctively, that the use of his given name tends to give things more weight in the other boy's mind. Larry looks away, suddenly very aware of the fact that Vance hasn't gotten dressed yet, and is now pacing about the room, agitated and shirtless. "Look, this shit ain't good for you, alright? No one should torture themselves like that. I'm sayin' this as your friend, man; you need to back off from him," here Larry makes a startled, protesting noise, "or you need to tell him."

This is met with dead silence.

"I can't… I mean, what the hell would I… You know I can't _tell_ him! He'd hate my guts," Larry burst out in distress, "he'd never talk to me again!"

Vance frowns more deeply. "Well, then he's a shitty excuse for a best friend, isn't he?" Vance says with familiar, blunt and unforgiving honesty.

Again, Larry can't argue without lying, and again he attempts to divert attention. "But, but he needs me," he says, hating how small his voice has become. "And we're best friends, and you aren't supposed to fall for…" he trails off, frustrated. Trying to explain himself is difficult, especially when Vance insists on punching holes straight through defences that have stood fine in his own mind for so long (so long as he didn't examine them too closely).

"I don't know about the falling for best friends thing. I mean, who's better than them?" He shrugs, and continues in a harsh whisper, conscious that this is a dorm and other people live here. Jimmy Hopkins, for example, the nosy bastard. "And maybe you're right. Maybe he does need you. He certainly seems to – idiot gets himself into a mess as soon as you take your goddamn eye off've him. But if he's worth anything at all, then he'll realize that, and realize just how fucking good you've been to him, lookin' after the insensitive bastard and not caring that he, your best friend, the one who is supposed to know you best, doesn't actually know shit all about you. You hold him together when the stupid skank rips him to pieces for fun, and you never try to push him into anything, even though you see him at his lowest and you could probably do it. And honestly, he doesn't seem to deserve it," Vance pauses, gathering breath to continue. Larry is too floored to say anything at all, staring at Vance in frank astonishment.

"And you, you amazing dumbass. Stop being such a fucking pussy." Larry attempts to protest, but Vance shushes him. "Oh, shut the fuck up. Yeah, I know you'd take on Russell if Johnny asked you to, and that's a kind of courage, but it ain't the one you need now. You need to stop thinkin' of him first and you second all the time, because that's not natural and it sure as fuck isn't healthy."

Vance pauses once again, taking in a deep gulp of air and looking at Larry expectantly. He remains silent, hands stuffed into his pockets and looking at the floor. "Oh, come on, man. Look, I don't particularly like talking about this shit, either. But who else is going to, huh? So just, get over it, and let someone help you."

Without raising his eyes from the ground, Larry speaks, quietly. Vance has to step closer just to hear him. "Yeah, I know. You're right. And, y'know, thanks." Vance nods and motions impatiently for him to continue. "I know that what I do isn't… whatever, but at least this way I'm still, still important. You know? I'm still… there," he crosses his arms in front of his chest defensively, aware that this sounds pretty stupid.

Now that he thinks about it, it _is _pretty stupid.

"Sure, sure. Look I don't really understand you two, and that's fine. It isn't really my business, I guess. But… just be careful, okay? And," he stops, grabs Larry's shoulder to catch his eye, then continues, "I really think you should tell him, or at least tell him to back off a little. Because he is your best friend, and I don't think he _wants _to hurt you. Just, think about it."

Larry's fingers find the lighter in his pocket and curl around it, telling his traitorous mind to quit reminding him about Vance's mouth on his neck, his hands running up his back. Now is not the time, it really isn't. "Yeah, alright. Thanks Vance." There is thoughtful silence, in which Vance gets dressed, and then Larry grins once more. "So, what should we do with those pictures?"

* * *

Leaning on the wall outside of the shop building after Chemistry, Larry is starting to get a bad feeling. He is waiting for Johnny to show up so they can bike over to New Coventry (he has finished Art, so doesn't need to be back, and Johnny is going to skip his Bio class). But Johnny is late, and getting later. Larry is considering going on his own, but then sees Johnny's rather distinctive form approaching.

Clinging to his arm is – you guessed it, ladies and gentlemen – Bullworth's number one skank.

Well, in fairness, maybe not number _one_. Two, perhaps. But 'number one skank' just has a better ring to it.

Larry has always thought expressions like 'his blood boiled,' or 'he saw red,' were kind of stupid, and probably fatal. But this time, right now, he understands. The blood he can hear thrumming through his ears seems hotter than usual, heady and a little painful, and he can almost imagine the red veil of rage dropping over his eyes as she wraps her arms around him and giggles at something he says. He clenches his fist and feels his nails digging into his palm. The stinging pain grounds him, and he takes a deep breath.

Johnny looks at him apologetically. "Hey, uh, Lola wants to have lunch with me, and go see a movie. So d'you mind if I…" Larry crosses his arms and plays dumb, having no intention of making this easy for the other boy. Johnny swallows and looks to Lola for help, but she looks at him expectantly, propping a hand on her hip. He chews his lip desperately, caught between an irate girlfriend and a suddenly uncooperative best friend.

Larry sighs and takes pity on him. "Yeah, fine, man. Go play king and queen, will ya? I'm sure you got subjects waiting for you," he says, trying to keep his voice friendly and not let the snarl seep into his words. Before he turns to walk away he catches a glance of Lola's face, and the colour abruptly drains from his cheeks.

Because she has a possessive grip on his arm and a smirk on her full, glossy lips and a smug, knowing look in her pretty eyes and _she knows_.

He walks away on autopilot, mind and face blank. He makes it all the way to the cafeteria before he realizes how fatal the cooking is in here. But he's hungry and it's free so he chokes it down and resumes his wandering, wanting very much to hit something (or better yet, some_one_). He finds himself back outside the garages, and decides that a nice, fast bike ride is the thing to cool him off.

He spends two hours speeding down the back paths that are deserted at this hour before he stops, gasping for breath and his shirt almost soaked through with sweat.

Then he goes to the gym showers to clean off, because at the very least the jocks won't try to talk to him, and no one will start anything in jock territory, either. Although there has been a lot less of that since Hopkins and Smith had their little showdown, and Hopkins decided he was going to be 'King of the School'. Johnny wasn't happy abou- _Quit that_, he admonishes himself. _Think about something else._

Conveniently enough, he has gym next period, so he pulls on gym clothes and watches the last ten minutes of the class before him. It turns out to be girl's volleyball, which he should probably enjoy more than he does. As it is, he has to fight down the temptation to watch the guys' water polo next door, instead.

Eventually he decides fighting your instincts isn't really worth it and wanders over, just in time to see Russell lumbering over to the pool, in not nearly enough bathing suit. He winces, mostly in sympathy for whoever has to play against him.

* * *

Sorry for the wait, but this one was pretty painful to write – emotional exposition is not fun. This seems like an abrupt ending, and it sort of is, but more drama is happening next chapter, so stay tuned!

Colvine


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Duh.

**Warnings: **Language, and other fun stuff. Going to have to up the rating in later chapters, and that'll be all the warning you get.

**Summary:** Lola isn't the only one to leave a trail of broken hearts behind wherever she goes, and Larry 'Peanut' Romano knows it better than most.

**Heartbreakers**

Soon after the end of his gym class (during which the coach spent more time watching the cheerleaders practice than teaching, the creepy bastard) Larry gets bored. Even chucking pebbles into the courtyard of Harrington House and then ducking behind the bushes as the preps whip around rubbing the backs of their heads is only funny so many times.

He ends up in the shop courtyard, kicking a soda can around. He should be tired by now, from the biking and gym class, but he's full of restless energy. He wanders into the auto building, hoping for something to do, but finds it mostly deserted. Hal's legs (and frankly, some of his stomach) are sticking out from the underside of a car up on jacks, and he is doing something that involves some angry and creative cursing.

"Hey, what're you doing down there? And where's everyone else?"

"Stupid son of a- Huh? Oh, hey Peanut. Sorry 'bout the… uh. Anyways, Neil said the break fluid was leaking from somewhere, and I gotta find out where. Dunno where the rest of the guys went." Hal sounds a little shifty, nervous almost, but then it's rather hard to tell, so Larry lets it pass.

"Yeah, well, thanks," Larry says, ignoring the strange trail-off mid-sentence, for his own peace of mind more than anything else. "Good luck with that leak, man."

Larry prefers working on bikes and motorcycles – lying on your back underneath a couple of tons of metal has always made him a little uneasy, no matter how sturdy the jacks are.

He walks over to his station, but there is nothing else he can do until he gets more instructions from Neil, and his next shop class isn't for another two days.

He's feeling pretty pissed off by this point – he can't find anyone to hang out with, nor anything interesting to do, and the guys haven't even told him where to find them.

Then he remembers, and snorts. Today is the day that they all go to 'Hot Rod Club'. It isn't really anything more than what they usually do – meet up somewhere for burgers and talk about cars or, in most cases, bikes, but it's an official school club (as of last year) and apparently that looks good if you're applying to college. Not that many of them are thinking that far ahead, but Neil said that it was a good idea.

He bikes down to the burger shop where they all meet for their meetings, if you could call them that. He takes his time about it, not feeling particularly anxious to see anyone right now. He's been in a weird mood the last few days. Since he and Vance… He abruptly cuts off that train of thought. He is not, not, _not_ thinking about that anymore.

At all.

By the time he turns up, some of the guys are already leaving. He greets some of them absently and walks in.

His eyes fly almost immediately to the back booth that they always set up shop in and, as always, Johnny is in the corner, hands linked behind his head and chewing a toothpick as a substitute for the cigarettes that he isn't supposed to smoke in here. Next to him, Lucky and Ricky are arguing about something animatedly. Vance sits across from them, chin resting on his hand and gazing out the window vacantly. Larry wonders what he's looking for. _Who, you mean_, a voice whispers insidiously, and he clenches his jaw.

As he approaches Ricky and Lucky stand up, barely sparing him a nod as they depart, still arguing. He sits down, sort of next to Johnny, and Vance looks up, notices Larry and leaves. Johnny whistles lowly and remarks, "Wow, Peanut, you can sure clear out a room."

"Seems like it," he replies shortly, still angry but somehow detached.

Johnny seems uneasy with this strange and unfamiliar side of his best friend. He clears his throat and sits forward, bringing his hands down to rest on the table. In a small part of his mind, Larry admires them.

Johnny has good hands, large and strong, but with fingers long and slender enough that they look suited to delicate tasks. He would very much like to touch those hands, and to feel them on his skin. He would like to see them open and close helplessly when the other boy is overwhelmed by other, more pressing sensations. Larry wonders if they would. Maybe they would lay limp and forgotten, or maybe they would grab hold of him and not let go. He thinks he would like that.

All of this passes through his head in the few empty seconds before Johnny speaks once more. When he does, Larry returns to ignoring that part of his mind. Although he does notice that Johnny's fingers are twisting together nervously. "Hey, uh, sorry about ditching you earlier today. Lola just…"

"Yeah, Lola. Sure, whatever Johnny. Do what you have to, I guess. But can we talk about something else, boss?"

"Uh, sure Peanut." Johnny is still uneasy around this strange, different version of his best friend, but as they talk about teachers and classmates and classes and the latest stories flying around the school the tension in the air seems to bleed away.

Larry looks up, maybe an hour later, to catch the flash of far-off lightning in the window. "Aw, hell. Two nights in a row?"

Johnny glances at him. "It was raining last night?" Larry laughs.

"You were pretty out of it, huh?" he says, standing up and shrugging his jacket back on.

"Yeah, I guess." Johnny rises, walking out of the shop and standing under the awning. Larry follows him, chewing his lip. He has something to say and he knows it won't go over well. He's turning the words over in his head, wondering if there's any way to make them work.

Nope.

He knows he has to say it. It'll drive him crazy if he doesn't. But he knows that they will hurt the other boy, make him angry, and he doesn't want that. Because oblivious and occasionally insensitive though Johnny may be, he is also kind-hearted and loyal, fierce and passionate, and he has stayed by Larry through some tough, painful times. And Larry doesn't want to hurt him, or endanger their friendship. But it will help Johnny in the long term, and probably himself as well, so he has to do it. He delays though, following Johnny wordlessly through the rainy and deserted streets without a word, trying to find the perfect arrangement of words that will make this work.

Finally, on an empty stretch of road next to a closed-up store and a seedy-looking hotel parking lot, he gathers his resolve and takes a deep breath. "Johnny?" He turns back, catches the expression on Larry's face and stops.

"Yeah?"

"What the hell are you doing, man?" Johnny opens his mouth to ask what he means, but Larry has opened a floodgate inside himself and the words are pouring out and he can't rein them in or slow them down. "With Lola, I mean. Do you not remember what we saw her doing? I mean, it was _yesterday_, for fuck's sake! She. Is. A. Slut." He sees Johnny's hands balling into fists, and his words speed up more, practically spilling from his mouth before he can think them. He's a little surprised, honestly, by what he hears himself saying. That's what you get for bottling things up, he guesses.

"Alright, alright. Fine, that's a bad word. But she likes playing guys against each other, likes having them fight over her. And you're the best part of her collection, the fucking crown jewel, because you keep coming back for more. When other guys get tired of her tricks, she turns to you and snaps her fingers and you're back at her side, panting like a puppy. She doesn't love you, Johnny, not the way you love her. Or maybe she does," he hastily amends, seeing storm clouds brewing in Johnny's dark eyes, "but it doesn't matter, because she loves the power she has over all those other guys more." It looks like Johnny wants to say something, but Larry has to say his piece first, has to say all of it.

"She won't ever love you and only you, and you deserve someone who does. She's gonna keep ripping you to pieces, Johnny," he says, unconsciously echoing Vance's phrasing from before, "and I'm not going to keep putting you back together, not if all you do is run back to her. Because you're hurting me too, Johnny, and you don't even notice." He finishes in a defeated whisper, and Johnny seems not to hear him, still occupied with his earlier words.

He has adopted a broad, aggressive stance, hands curled into fists at his sides. The water pouring from the sky drenches them both as they stand face to face in the rain, but neither boy seems to notice, too wrapped up in his own anger or sadness. "Fuck you," he spits. "You don't know anything! She's my queen, and I love her. She _has _to love me. She does! You just don't fucking understand! How could you?"

In the sudden silence, thunder booms. Johnny feels vaguely that he has crossed a boundary, although he doesn't quite understand what it was. Something seems to clench in Larry's chest, and then snaps into sharp, brittle shards. He feels them digging in, razor-sharp pieces of bitterness and fury and betrayal. He fights his hands down, though they itch to grab the other boy's collar or hit him in the face. He steps forward, mirroring Johnny's pose. He speaks quietly, anger simmering beneath his words and occasionally bursting forth and punctuated by a yell.

"I don't understand? _I _don't understand what it's like to love someone who will never love me back, who is constantly hurting me? Do you really think that? Well, then you are the shittiest excuse for a best friend that I have ever fucking seen! You don't even _know_, you stupid bastard! Well, you know what, Johnny? Fuck you. _Fuck _you. You can figure this one out on your own, Johnny, because I am fucking finished." With that he turns on his heel and walks away into the rain, his outline fading from view as Johnny stands, stunned, furious and guilty, in his wake.

* * *

On another, entirely unrelated note, Jimmy Hopkins wakes up that morning and finds a brown envelope sitting innocently on his bedside table. Frowning (well, frowning _more_) he rips it open and dumps the contents onto his bed. Four photographs fall out and a note flutters to a rest on the top of the pile.

He picks up the note, an expression of perplexed mistrust crossing his face as he reads it. All it says it, _From one King to another. _Hastily added on the bottom, it finishes, _Well, sort of._ He snickers.

Then he looks at the pictures, and a grin of pure, malevolent glee spreads across his face.

The next morning, large, blurry and drawn upon copies of the pictures have made their way into the lockers of each boy concerned. Kirby looks vaguely ill and jumpy for a week, the other jocks appear largely unaffected, and Trent looks inordinately pleased with himself as he absentmindedly stuffs nerds into lockers and garbage cans, although he also appears to have acquired a slight limp.

* * *

During that same week, if one had been watching the behaviour of the greasers, a few strange changes might have been noticed.

Johnny Vincent, the unofficial head and self-titled King of the Greasers, was unusually moody, by turns quiet and withdrawn, then angry and unreasonable. He had also, interestingly, stopped speaking to Lola Lombardi altogether. And it was a cold, uninterested silence rather than the heated 'I'm not speaking to you right now,' silence, which seemed filled with words anyways and was soon broken. This temporarily piqued the interest of several girls in several cliques across Bullworth, but their interest did not last long; Johnny Vincent's strange silence seemed to extend to much of the student body and as much of the faculty as he could get away with.

The rest of the greasers mirrored their leader's malcontent in their uneasy dispositions and edgy behaviour, although they were clearly as much in the dark as the school's population at large.

The only individuals who might have provided any insight were behaving equally strangely.

Larry Romano, known to most as Peanut and formerly the best friend of Johnny Vincent, refused to speak to him and appeared reluctant to even glance in his direction. He interacted only superfluously with other greasers, and seemed to be nursing a grudge.

Signs of badly controlled anger and frustration made themselves known in both boys, who seemed inexplicably furious with one another. Peanut also adopted Johnny's tendencies towards silence unless strictly necessary.

Vance Medici, the only other person who behaved differently from the majority of the greasers, had clammed up. He spoke to both Peanut and Johnny, often animatedly and at length, wearing a pleading expression, but to no visible end.

Jimmy Hopkins, also a self-titled monarch, pries into the matter as any good king should, but to no avail. He eventually gives up and returns to sitting back and enjoying the turmoil he has unleashed upon the jock community. He is considering making out with Trent or Kirby to further stir things up.

* * *

So, that was a pretty short chapter. Sorry! But I'm not good at drawing drama out for too long. The last bit was quite a different style, and I'm not entirely sure about it. The Jimmy interludes are intended to give everyone a break from the angst for a bit. Hopefully they helped. At the very least, I feel better for Peanut now – it was really satisfying, having him yell at Johnny like that. I'm having a bit of a dilemma now, though – are they going to make up, make out, or none of the above? I've got ideas for all three, which makes things a little difficult. Review (hint hint) and let me know!

Colvine


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **Not mine. Duh.

**Warnings: **Language, and other fun stuff. I'm going to up the rating in later chapters, and that'll be all the warning you get.

**Summary:** Lola isn't the only one to leave a trail of broken hearts behind wherever she goes, and Larry 'Peanut' Romano knows it better than most.

**Heartbreakers**

"God, Vance, what am I doing?" Larry is lying on his back on his bed, hands tucked behind his head. He raises his voice; giving it a plaintive edge that Vance cannot ignore, try though he might.

"Bitching," the other boy replies unsympathetically, trying without success to tune the other boy out and get back to his English homework. But Larry must have older siblings or especially thick-skinned parents because he has developed harmonics to his voice that make him impossible to ignore when he whines. Probably that's why he doesn't do it often – someone would _surely_ have punched him if subjected to too much of this.

"Oh, fuck off," he snaps. "I just… how is he this fucking stupid? He is really, really perceptive when he's looking for people laughing at him, or that kind of bullshit. But this, he doesn't even notice! How could he not notice?"

Vance sighs and abandons the homework. "The some way _everyone else_ didn't notice. You hid it really well, except from me because I am amazing. Now can I please finish my assignment before you continue with your bitchfest?"

"Yeah, yeah fine. No need to be such a jerk about it. Why's that so important anyways?"

Vance looks at the desk and tries to force his expression into 'innocent mode'. It doesn't work, possibly because he doesn't have one. "Well, it was due two weeks ago."

Larry snorts. "Good job, man. What is it, that stupid 'describe your goals in life' thing?" he asks, doing a passable imitation of their slightly drunk teacher.

"Uh huh. Why?"

"Well, it's easy. Just bullshit an answer, it's not like he can say you're wrong, they're your goals. I mean, unless you say you want to, I don't know, be a serial killer or something. Even then, he might give you points for originality if he's more than halfway through his bottle."

The boys share a grin, and then Vance says ruefully, "That's easy for you to say. You have a talent for bullshit. I think about it, and nothing comes to mind. Seriously, nothing at all. I suddenly know how Russell must feel _all the time_."

"Ha, be careful. If he figures out that that was an insult, he'll smash you."

"No kidding." They both take a moment to remember the last 'Russell Smash', and Vance winces. "That poor kid."

"But seriously," Larry continues after a few blessed minutes of silence, "what-"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Vance groans, glaring at the other boy. "Look, talk to him. Or don't. But please, _please_ stop talking to me about it! It's been almost a week, Larry, and you two have barely even looked at each other, and the guys are getting worried. Except for Ricky, who's been broken up with and is bitching about it. And even he isn't this persistent!"

"Sorry, sorry." He sits quietly and then turns to Vance. "Wait, again? I thought they broke up last month?"

"Yeah, they did. But it turns out she couldn't take the constant apologizing and begging for forgiveness. And the crying. But apparently she couldn't take Ricky for very long either, so she broke up with him again."

"He cried? Oh, Ricky," he sighs, despairing, "you can't _cry_. God. Maybe I should go talk to him."

Vance tries not to think about Ricky's theatrical displays of despair meeting up with Larry's quiet, persistent melancholy and then teaming up. But at the very least they can bitch at each other instead of everyone else. In fact, Vance would probably get a medal for bringing it about. "Yeah, maybe. We've tried, and Johnny's too wrapped up in his own shit." Larry stiffens at the mention of the other boy, but doesn't say anything about him.

Instead, he asks a question that Vance has been quietly dreading for the last week. "Okay, I'll leave you alone," Vance sighs in exaggerated relief, and Larry punches him on the arm absently. "But first, tell me who this mystery person is that you're so crazy about."

"Um, I… I don't know what you're talking about," he says, stalling desperately until he can think of an explanation that works – that is, one that isn't the truth.

"Oh, come on. Yes you do. And now you know about my stupidity, it's only fair to tell me about yours."

Vance has problems with this logic, and he wants to voice them. But he realizes that the easiest way to get Larry off of his case is just to tell him. Painful and humiliating though that may be. "Fine, you win. It's Gord." He looks down, avoiding Larry's eyes, which he expects are bugging out with surprise, or something equally flattering.

He's close. Though his eyes don't bug out at all, Larry chokes on air in the tradition of surprised idiots everywhere. "Gord? Gord Vend- Verd- Whatever, the preppie? The one who caused all that shit with Lola?" Then Larry notices Vance's expression and reins in his surprise and incredulity. "Well, that's not so bad, I guess. I mean, at least he isn't some dumbass jock," he attempts weakly.

All the while he is trying to picture Gord in his head. He can't quite manage it, never having been all that interested in the kid except for hoping against hope that this time would be the last straw for Johnny, that he would finally ditch Lola. Ironically, it looks like it was a fight with his best friend that did it, instead of any amount of cheating Lola indulged in.

Vance looks up, gratified by the lack of accusation or condemnation. Then he sinks back down again, remembering the many reasons that he hasn't even bothered. "Yeah yeah, that's him. He's the one that was with Lola. So it's not going to happen – he's not even gonna look at me."

Larry glances at him incredulously. "Vance, this is one of the most flamboyantly gay guys at Bullworth, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I mean, I saw him making out with Hopkins a while ago," he shudders at the memory, "and you don't make out with Hopkins unless you're _sure_ that you like guys. I can't actually think of anything _less_ female than Jimmy Hopkins while still human."

Vance grins weakly. "That's true, although it doesn't say much for his taste." Larry laughs as Vance continues, "But he's still a rich little prep, and I'm a still a 'dirty greaser'. Or pauper, or whatever they call us. It just, it won't work."

"Maybe. But it definitely won't work if you don't at least try. That's all I'm saying." Catching Vance's meaningful look, he sighs. "And yeah, that should probably apply to me as much as it does to you. So I guess I'll go and… try."

* * *

'Trying' turns out to be easier said than done. Larry has his work cut out for him even finding Johnny; forget figuring out what to say once he finally catches up with him.

He tries the dorm and wanders the school (very deliberately avoiding Harrington House – that would just be too weird) for a while until he reaches the auto shop. He doesn't find Johnny but he does find Ricky, and remembers that he had told Vance he would try talking to him. More accurately, he would try talking some sense into him.

Ricky is lying on his back on the low, wide fence bordering the shop courtyard, staring up into the rare expanse of bright, cloudless blue sky. Larry walks up wordlessly and boosts himself up so he's sitting by Ricky's feet. Then he leans back onto his arms and looks up into the sky as well. They sit like that until Larry finally asks, "So what exactly are you looking for up there, man?"

Ricky looks up, startled, and then sighs. "I'm lookin' for-" he is cut off abruptly by Larry.

"Sorry to interrupt, Ricky, but if you start going poetic, I'm gonna shove you off the wall, alright?"

Despite himself, he laughs. "Yeah, yeah, fuck you too Peanut. Fine, you want it plain? The love of my life just left me,"

"Again," Larry interjects.

"Oh, go fuck a duck. Yeah, again, alright. She left me _again_."

Larry is still looking at him strangely. "… A duck?"

"Shut up, it sounded better in my head," he mutters, put off at having to halt his monologue mid-show. "She left me," he continues half-heartedly, "and, and life just ain't worth living anymore," he wails dramatically, getting back into the spirit of things and sitting up to argue properly.

"Rick, you know there will be other girls," Larry starts uncertainly.

"Never like her!"

"Is that really so bad? She didn't even _like_ you, Ricky."

"You're lying!"

"Man, she wouldn't let you touch her half the time. You had to buy her half the flower shop before she would let you hold her hand! She wasn't interested," Larry says, trying to be nice. Ricky bursts into tears. _Aw, hell_. "Hey, Ricky, it's… it's alright," he says, reaching tentatively for the other boy's shoulder.

He feels the touch and turns to weep into Larry's jacket. Awkwardly, Larry slings an arm around the other boy's shoulders, looking around and hoping no one else is going to see this. He'd probably never live it down. "I'm not good enough for her!" the distraught boy wails. _What is it_, Larry wonders,_ with Greasers and girlfriend troubles? _After a pause for thought, he adds conscientiously, _and boyfriend troubles, I guess._

"No, Ricky, she's just mean, that's all. Now come on, man, quit crying. C'mon Ricky, stop that," he says a little desperately.

Ricky sniffs and looks at him, then shuffles away slightly, rubbing at his eyes furiously. "Uh, yeah. Sorry Peanut. About the-"

"Don't worry about it," Larry says, much more comfortable without the armful of crying teenage boy. "Just, try to find one that likes you next time, huh?"

"No one likes me," Ricky mutters.

"Shut up, Ricky," he says automatically. "What about that Angie chick, she always turns red when you look at her, right?"

"Nah, she does that with everyone."

"Not me."

"Yeah, well. Maybe just everyone taller than her, then," Ricky snickers.

Larry punches him in the arm. "Shut up." And then everything is sort of okay again. A little while later Larry sighs, remembering his original errand. He turns to the other boy and elbows him in the ribs. "Hey, have you seen Johnny lately? I hafta talk to him."

Ricky looks over at him, frowning a little. "Are you guys fighting or something? It's just…"

"Yeah. Heh, 'or something', I guess. But I wanna try and set things straight, alright? I don't know where he is, though," Larry says.

"Uh, last I saw him he was heading out to the tenements." He runs a hand through his hair distractedly before asking embarrassedly, "Hey, Peanut, is it because of your fight or whatever that him and Lola aren't talking?" Ricky is careful to sound neutral, but most of the Greasers would be slightly relieved if Johnny found a different girlfriend. Lola tends to make him a bit… volatile. Larry thinks that they wouldn't be all that happy if they knew who Larry wanted to replace her with, though. That is to say, himself.

Nope, they probably wouldn't like that.

"Maybe. M'not sure. Probably, though." Larry jumps down from the wall.

"Oh." Ricky looks around, and then continues quietly, "Good."

Larry smiles. "Right, well, I guess I should go talk to him then. See you," he says, picking up his bike.

"Yeah, bye. Uh, and thanks," Ricky mutters, looking embarrassed.

"No problem," Larry waves him off and pedals away. He narrowly avoids hitting a little kid who is skipping and jumping around erratically, and then pedals slower, wondering what kind of drugs _that_ kid is on. When he finally reaches the tenements, he is almost calm. Hopefully that will be enough.

Inside he finds Johnny pacing around agitatedly, frowning darkly at the floor, possibly because it isn't coming up with the answers he seems to expect. He stands still for a moment, just admiring Johnny, who really is attractive when he's angry. His eyes get more intense and the way he clenches his jaw only brings attention to the fact that it is gorgeously shaped and (in Larry's mind, at least) begging for someone to kiss it. The way he tenses up makes muscles crawl and bunch under his skin in a very distracting sort of way. His quick, harsh movements still retain some of the undertones of grace that hint that Johnny in motion will be a thing of beauty to watch, once he grows into himself.

Larry swallows, shakes his head, and steps forward. "Johnny?" he says, his voice sounding loud and full of a confidence that he is pretty sure he doesn't have. Johnny turns to face him and Larry almost wants to lean against a wall. Being the focus of those eyes makes his knees a little weak and his stomach a little warm. But he can ignore that, sort of.

"Peanut," Johnny says it like it's a statement. "What do you want?"

"For one thing, stop calling me that stupid goddamn nickname, will you?" he explodes. "I want to talk to you, and you're calling me Peanut, for fuck's sake!" For one short second Johnny looks like he's going to laugh, and Larry feels it bubbling up in his own chest as well. But then the frown comes back and hot though it is, he's a little disappointed.

"Larry, then," he snaps, seeming preoccupied by something. "What?"

Larry almost snarls, and then relaxes suddenly and unexpectedly. "You know, I don't really know why I'm here. I wanted to be angry at you, I wanted you to be angry at me, I wanted to yell and fight. I wanted to apologize. I wanted you to apologize but then, you don't even know what to say sorry for, do you? I don't know, Johnny. I want us to be best friends again," he finally says, voice small and defeated. "I want it to be less complicated than this, like before."

"Yeah. Yeah, that'd be… nice," Johnny agrees, moving towards Larry. Without thinking, Larry mimics the action, until they're barely feet apart. "What's happening, here?" Johnny asks beseechingly. "What're we even fighting about?"

"Lola," Larry sighs. "And you, and me." _Mostly you_, he adds to himself.

"I… You were right. About her, I mean. I hated it, I still hate it, but you're right. I think I knew it. And so I didn't want to hear it from anyone else, y'know?" He stops, but Larry isn't saying anything so after a pause he continues, "I ended it, this time. For the last time, maybe, if I can manage that. But it's so hard. Because," he hesitates, trying to find the right words, "I love her. Or I did. And she… I… I'm so used to going back to her…"

"You're loyal to a fault. And you care about her, and you're big-hearted and forgiving. And so you kept forgiving her, because you loved her." He crosses his arms, uncomfortable with how _open_ he sounds, how obvious and soul-baring a move this is. But he has to say something now, or he never will.

Johnny is looking at him strangely. "Larry," he says, his voice distant, "when you said I was hurting you… When you said I didn't understand… You didn't mean, I mean, you couldn't have meant…" he gestures weakly between the two of them, trying to say it without saying it. Larry steps closer and they're almost nose to nose again.

"No, Johnny," he says, his voice low and a little desperate, "that's exactly what I meant." He swallows, his stomach seeming to tear itself apart in his nervousness, his neck and face probably glowing from the heat they're giving off. But he is going to say it all, bring everything out into the open so the words can no longer fester inside of him, twisting and stabbing at unexpected moments. "I like you, and not just like a friend. I _want _you," he forces himself to say, "as more than a friend. And I can't pretend not to anymore, Johnny."

He wants to look away, but he feels like Johnny's eyes have him trapped, pinned to the wall so many feet behind him. His arms uncross and fall to his sides, unconsciously dropping his defences, but he lifts his chin defiantly, as if to say, 'do your worst'.

"You can't… that's not… I mean, I'm not-" Johnny fumbles for words and Peanut's stomach drops. He had hoped, even though he knew it was hopeless. He had hoped…

"Yeah, I know. Sorry, boss," he mumbles. He's not quite sure why he is the one apologizing.

His eyes slide from Johnny's eyes down to his lips, which are slightly parted. _This is stupid_, he tells himself as he leans forward. _A terrible idea_, he agrees with himself as he tilts his head to the side. Johnny mirrors him and then Larry is caught in his gaze again. _Really fucking dumb_, he concludes as he puts a hand on the back of Johnny's neck and pulls his head down.

But then, when else is he going to get a chance?

He slides his eyes shut and presses against chapped lips, gently and then with more pressure when he gets no response. Desperately, he pulls at Johnny's lower lip with his own, and finally, finally, the other boy reacts, arms winding around Larry's waist and pulling him forward abruptly. He hits Johnny's chest and the breath is pushed from his lungs. He pants into Johnny's mouth, warm air mingling between them for a second before he reconnects their lips.

He brings his other hand up to rest against Johnny's jaw, inexpressibly thrilled to feel it moving under his hands as their mouths push and pull against one another with increasing urgency.

He's lost, just _feeling_, for a few short moments and then the hands on his waist slip upward, along his stomach (he shivers) to his chest, and he's pushed away. Rather hard.

He stumbles back, arms pin wheeling, until he regains his balance. Johnny is standing opposite him with a hand pressed wonderingly to his mouth, breathing hard. When he notices Larry's gaze he drags the back of his hand across his mouth hurriedly.

"I'm not gay," he declares, his voice hoarse and loud in the empty room. "I'm not, I mean, you can't just… the guys would laugh us out of school… Lola would… God, Lola…" The words are like ice water down his back. Larry clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms viciously to keep the burning behind his eyes under control. He will _not_ cry. Not in front of Johnny. Fuck, no.

"She's the first thing you think about," he snarls bitterly, "even after something like this? Really? Fine, then, she's welcome to you." He turns away, then turns back and steps forward angrily. Johnny takes a step back, instinctively. "But you know what? I care more about you than she _ever_ has." There are more words, a whirling, angry storm of them all begging to be thrown out into the world, but Larry can't make enough sense of them to say anything more.

He walks away, thinking as he does that he really shouldn't make such a habit of storming away angrily.

"Larry! Larry, wait," Johnny barks. Larry stops, hand resting on the door handle, before turning slightly but leaving his hand in place. Johnny strides towards him, uncertainty in his eyes but not his steps. "You… I…" He doesn't seem to know what to say and Larry, rather uncharacteristically, sighs and turns to open the door. "No! Don't," Johnny grabs Larry by the shoulders and spins him around. "Don't leave." His back hits the door and Johnny leans down, plants a hand against the wall and-

And stops, mere inches away from Larry's mouth. Larry wants to reach out, pull him in, wants so very badly to just kiss him, but… But Johnny is staring with wide, confused eyes and the hand on Larry's shoulder is shaking, and it feels like this time, it has to be up to Johnny.

So he waits, and attraction begins a slow burn in his stomach and starts spreading its heat up, and down. And _god_, he wants the other boy. He's so painfully, torturously _close_.

He kisses Larry, so softly, so delicately, that he almost doesn't feel it. That just won't do because, as amazing as it feels, this is probably how he kissed _her_, and Larry doesn't want to be associated with her, not even just in the other boy's head. Especially not in Johnny's head, actually, now that Larry thinks about it.

He grabs Johnny's jacket and pulls him closer until they are pressed together. He tilts his head to a more accommodating angle and pushes forward, hesitantly, with his tongue. That seems to set a fire somewhere, because the next thing he knows he is shoved firmly against the wall with Johnny's tongue trying to crawl down his throat and his hands everywhere at once, and it is all Larry can do to clutch desperately at his shoulders and try to kiss back.

It's hard, though, because the blood pounding through his ears is deafening, and the world is spinning around him and his grip on Johnny's firm, broad shoulders is about the only thing keeping him from flying off the ground. And this is so wonderfully, agonizingly good that he can't decide whether he wants it to never end, or that he needs more, much more, right _now_. He wraps his arms around the other teen, trying to pull him closer though they are already pressed tightly together.

Their lips are suddenly detached and he almost groans at the sudden absence. Johnny's hands ghost upwards once more, under the hot leather jacket, and the muscles in Larry's stomach all bunch and tense without his permission, suddenly terrified that he will be shoved away once more. But the hands keep rising, up to his shoulders where they slide the jacket insistently downward and Larry, astonished and delighted, lets his arms fall to his sides. The jacket drops to the floor, unheeded, and they stare at each other for a few, silent seconds before coming forwards again with quick, fumbling urgency.

Larry pushes the jacket from Johnny's shoulders and Johnny lets it drop without ever disconnecting their lips. This involves some complicated shoulder movements, and Larry feels them all, against his chest. It's unexpectedly thrilling. He slides his hands up inside Johnny's shirt and feels the expanses of smooth skin, muscles twitching beneath his hands. When he presses over certain parts of his midsection Johnny twitches and gasps into Larry's mouth and while he isn't using the knowledge now, he will remember for later that Johnny Vincent is ticklish.

He pushes the shirt up, up, up and then it drops to the floor alongside the jacket, accompanied by some squirming on Johnny's part that Larry can't help but observe appreciatively. Johnny tugs demandingly at Larry's t-shirt and he obediently strips, although it involves some struggling since it is quite a tight shirt.

He is pulled forward by fingers threaded through his belt loops, and something about the gesture is unexpectedly intimate. His stomach lurches warmly and he swallows. There are so many things he wants to say, so many things he wants to know from Johnny. But he shoves them to the back of his mind, because he doesn't trust this thing of theirs, not yet. For all he knows, it isn't really a thing at all. Words crawling up his throat die on his tongue, and he occupies himself with staring unabashedly at the shirtless, dishevelled, glorious vision before him.

"God. You're amazing, Johnny," he breathes. Johnny doesn't say anything, but makes a deep, groaning sigh in the back of his throat and kisses him again. Hesitantly, Larry reaches up and threads his fingers through Johnny's soft, slightly slick hair, and swallows a whimper at the feeling of his bare chest brushing gently against Johnny's as they come together and move apart again.

His legs are rubber beneath him, and he is surprised that he is still upright without the wall behind him. Then he wonders why the wall isn't behind him anymore, and finds that they have been drifting slowly towards Johnny's bed, in the centre of the room.

The thought of a bed sends a shudder of mingled lust and apprehension up his spine, and he takes a few stumbling, hasty steps back until the back of his legs hit the edge of the bed. He sits abruptly, the sudden change in altitudes making his head even lighter as he looks up breathlessly at Johnny, who drops onto his knees on the bed, next to Larry. His hands, the same hands that had so distracted Larry just days before, drop onto his thigh and curl around his back and spread burning, blissful heat wherever they touch him.

He winds his fingers into the gently curling hair at the back of Johnny's neck, and grips desperately when Johnny's tongue curls experimentally against his own once more. He pulls his mouth free through a supreme effort of will, and licks a path down Johnny's neck, relishing the other boy's sudden sound of surprise.

He plants his hand on Johnny's shoulder as he sucks on the junction of his neck and shoulder. Larry doesn't know quite what he is doing, but it seems to be working, and he takes his cues from Johnny's reactions – more pressure here, a bite there, and that spot right _there_ makes him moan deliciously.

Then suddenly, he is pressed onto his back and fingers are straying beneath the waistband of his jeans, fumbling with the button. Larry reaches down to help, fingers shaking, and manages instead to tangle their fingers accidentally. Johnny looks up at the same moment that Larry's eyes jump to his face, and he flushes deep red. Something about that gesture is intimate in a much deeper, more frightening way and Larry doesn't know if they could manage that.

But Johnny's eyes are dark, molten pools, full of heat and lust and an intense, hungry sort of trust. Larry takes a deep breath that should, theoretically, be calming him down, and grabs Johnny's hands tighter, pulling them up and away from his crotch with great reluctance. "Not… Not, uh, that," he pants inarticulately. "I just…" He bites his lip hard, both to stop anymore words from spilling out and to remind himself not to kiss Johnny right now. He really does want to.

Johnny looks at him, brow creasing in consternation as his brain catches up with events. This is, Larry guesses, the moment of truth. Well, _another_ moment of truth, which will hopefully be less disappointing than previous ones. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, right." He doesn't seem to want to move from his position kneeling over Larry's thighs and Larry doesn't mind at all, although the heat and pressure is getting distracting and seems to be siphoning yet more blood away from his brain and further south. He supposes that he needs that for thinking, now. So he wriggles out and sits up, dropping one of Johnny's hands but hanging tenaciously on to the other.

"I just, um," he laughs nervously. "I don't wanna be a cheap date or anything," he says, going out on a limb, "so, let me buy you dinner first?" He looks at the other teen from the corner of his eye, slanting a hopeful, almost apologetic grin at him when he catches his eye.

Suddenly, finally, after what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds, Johnny answers him. He speaks in a stunned sort of voice, distant and wondering, "Yeah Larry, that sounds… nice." He echoes Larry's shaky laughter but doesn't drop the hand still attached to his.

Larry's chest is so full of laughter and irrepressible, incredulous joy that he thinks he might just float gently off of the ground. He smiles broadly, crookedly at Johnny and says, "Nice. Yeah. Tomorrow good?"

"What? Tomorrow. Yeah, that's fine." He half suspects that Johnny is agreeing to all of this in a sort of daze, and he isn't about to push his luck. He gently extricates his hand and slinks towards the door. Just as he is closing it behind himself, he hears Johnny mutter something to himself, and then yell, possibly to the empty room. "What? Johnny Vincent is no girl! _I'll_ buy _you_ dinner!"

That sounds more like it. Even with the implied insult to his masculinity, Larry has to bite his tongue to clamp down on the noise of wordless glee clawing its way up his throat.

* * *

Sorry this took so long! I have a little trouble writing this kind of scene, so I like to take my time with it. And of course, I have no beta, so I have to self-edit, with varying degrees of success. Anyways, I hope it was worth the wait.

Colvine


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